


You'll Be a Man, Boy

by vanishingbyler



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (klaus obvs), Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 18:44:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishingbyler/pseuds/vanishingbyler
Summary: She’s not sure if Vanya has noticed the way she twitches at the sound of the name, but she doesn’t use it during their late night rendezvous. At night, they’re Vanya and Five. Five doesn’t quite know how to express how glad she is for that fact.





	You'll Be a Man, Boy

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for any mistakes, no betas here we die like men
> 
> title is from run boy run by woodkid
> 
> this is pretty much just 10k words of Trans Projection™ but with added "five and vanya having a top-notch sibling bond"
> 
> if u wanna talk about this at all, my twt is @closetedcory and my curiouscat is @corywiison,, i'm always down to talk about tua & trans hcs uwu
> 
> big big love to my friend christy, actual angel, for reading aloud to me as i wrote this so i could hear how it sounded to other people and i love her very much

Five Hargreeves is not afraid of the dark. Rather, she fears what lives inside it. She hates when the night comes, the lights go out, and all she's left with is her own thoughts. They terrify her. At least during the day, she can hide from them - busy herself with her studies and training, or playing with her siblings until she forgets her own mind. 

 

Vanya is the first to notice. She may be ordinary, but she's Five's most powerful sibling by far. She has the power of intuition, of reading her siblings’ thoughts just by watching the way they act. Five is sure that if her sister did have powers, she’d be a mind reader.

 

They're seven when Vanya first begins sneaking out of her room at night to sit with Five until she falls asleep. They’d talk well into the night and the next morning, as if by magic, Five would wake up alone and rested.

 

She is never entirely sure what her thoughts and fears really mean. She knows that nighttime brings introspection, time to ponder over why hearing her name, Emmeline, feels like a knife in her chest. It’s not as if it’s an ugly name. She quite likes how it links back to her roots - her birth mother, an English woman, came from the same city as Emmeline Pankhurst, and Grace chose Five’s name to reflect that. As a name, it means hard work, power. A strong name for a strong girl. Five can’t put her finger on why that doesn’t fit. 

 

She’s not sure if Vanya has noticed the way she twitches at the sound of the name, but she doesn’t use it during their late night rendezvous. At night, they’re Vanya and Five. Five doesn’t quite know how to express how glad she is for that fact.

 

One night, she can’t stop crying. Vanya is holding her hand, whispering stories of time travel and aliens, the kind of tales that usually bring Five immeasurable joy, but for some reason, nothing is working. Vanya slips out of the room, barely noticed by her inconsolable sister. She returns minutes later with two peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches.

 

It helps, somehow. The next morning Five wakes up with her sister still curled at the foot of the bed.

 

-x-

 

The month before the siblings’ ninth birthday, Five and Ben are bedridden with a nasty case of flu. It lasts three weeks, and in that time Five notices even more things that twist in her gut the way  _ Emmeline  _ does.

 

It’s all in the way Grace speaks to them. Subtle things, barely noticeable, but Five feels it. She feels the way it stings when she finishes a bowl of chicken soup and hears  _ ‘Well done, sweetie!’  _ while Ben gets  _ ‘Great job, champ!’.  _ It’s not even that she wishes those words would be used for her. She isn’t opposed to sweetie, angel, or darling. It’s just the sense of disconnect she feels when the boys get one thing and she gets another. She doesn’t want to feel different.

 

(Let's ignore that, in reality, she always has.)

 

-x-

 

The summer months are strange for Five.

 

In the 80+ degree heat, she feels swamped by her waist-length dark hair. It’s as though someone’s draped a damp tea cloth over her head, absorbing all the heat and attempting to choke her.

 

When she asks Grace for a haircut, it takes a few days for her to get an answer. Grace has to check with their father before she’ll make any changes to the children's appearances - he has this irritating obsession with uniformity, of forming a cohesive look between all of his children. He always says how a day will come where they have to look like a team, and apparently matching haircuts and stifling uniforms are the way to do that.

 

Eventually, Reginald Hargreeves gives in, but only on the condition that Five’s hair matches the boys’. She wasn’t to have it shoulder length, or middle-parted, or any other style. She needed a short back and sides, with it longer on top (though no longer than to hang above her eyebrows).

 

These days, Vanya no longer comes to Five’s room. She was once caught by Pogo, and now has her bedroom surveilled at night.

 

It’s okay though. The dark no longer chokes Five the way it used to. With her new hair, she feels invincible. She looks in the mirror that hangs at the end of the bed and feels exhilarated rather than alienated. She lays her head on the pillow and uses the hand that Vanya once held to stroke the back of her head, where stifling curls no longer lie.

 

It feels right, in a way.

 

On Saturdays, from noon til half past, the children are allowed to the nearby park. It’s the one time a week the girls are allowed to wear casual shorts, rather than their usual pleated plaid skirts.

 

Five can’t ignore the way her heart swells when a small child runs up to Vanya and asks  _ ‘Excuse me, can I play with you and your brother?’. _

 

-x-

 

In September of that same year, Five’s hair has started to grow back. She doesn’t dare ask for it to be cut short again, not now the excuse of the blazing sun is gone. She’s back in skirts and blouses, and the dark worries her yet again.

 

She misses those nights with her sister. She thinks wistfully of how easy it was to be okay with someone by her side that never made her feel othered.

 

One day, during the hour allotted for independent study, Klaus flounces into Five’s room in a pair of Grace’s scarlet red high heels.

 

“Oh, Emmeline!” He sings, twirling around.

“Yes?” She isn’t in the mood for his games today. She’s chosen psychological deviance as her topic for the month, and the book is just getting interesting - she’s reached the topic of sexuality and gender non-conformity, and it’s the first thing on the subject she’s ever been exposed to (not counting Klaus’ existence).

“I was wondering,  _ mon sœur adorée,  _ if I could borrow one of your skirts?”

Five raises an eyebrow. “For what reason?”   
“Style, my darling!”

“And so you expect for me to just… give you my clothes?”   
“Well of course not, that would be rude. I’ll trade you!” 

 

Without hesitation, he drops his shorts and climbs out of them, throwing them in the direction of Five’s desk. Now, standing clad only in boxers and his wrinkled shirt, he turns to rifle through the wardrobe, ignoring his sister’s horrified expression.

 

Five can’t fathom how Klaus has the nerve to be so flamboyant in a household where deviance is punishable by so much. But, she can’t deny, her brother suits the skirt. Far more than she ever has, anyway.

 

He thanks her, casually ignoring that she never  _ actually  _ agreed to this, and dances out of the room as if nothing had happened.

 

Confused but amused, Five drapes the shorts over the headboard of the bed and returns to her book. She only reads for a few minutes, however, before a subheading stops her in her tracks.

 

_ Transgender Identity. _

 

She knows enough about Latin word roots to assume what it means, and wonders how its’ existence had never crossed her mind before.

 

Interest piqued, she reads on. And keeps reading, the same paragraph over and over as her chest tightens.

 

-x-

 

Klaus is lanky. He’s twice Five’s height, and the great majority of that difference comes from his absurdly long legs.

 

That hasn’t stopped Five wearing his shorts. In fact, she wears them near enough every day - nobody in the house can remember when she last wore a skirt of her own, and her look has become defined by her messy bob haircut and awkwardly rolled up shorts that, when unfurled, hang down to her shins.

 

Everyone pretends to ignore it, though Diego spots the way his mother’s eyes track Five when she walks, gazed fixed on the hem of her ridiculous shorts. 

 

The night before the children turn ten, Grace lays out their Sunday Best clothes on their desks. Five’s heart leaps when she wakes to see a pair of shorts her own size waiting for her. It leaps again when she opens her wardrobe to see six more pairs and not one skirt.

 

After breakfast and an hour of opening presents (all handmade and from each other - Reginald Hargreeves has never been a fan of proper birthday celebrations), the children line up and wait for their birthday haircuts. This is a tradition for them. Their father insists on taking a family portrait each year - sans Vanya, much to Five’s dismay - that he can frame in the hall to document his children’s growth. While she wants to believe that it’s out of sentiment, the predominant side of Five’s mind is cynical, and she’s aware that it’s more likely for the purposes of his scientific monitoring.

 

When she sits in the chair before her mother, she expects for her short-ish hair just to be neatened out, to the point it’s a uniform length and passable as a bob, rather than a mop. She’s stunned when she feels the edge of the scissors at the nape of her neck, trimming her hair to once again mirror the boys’.

 

There’s a light in Five’s eyes in that year’s photo that was never present before.

 

-x-

 

The book on deviant psychology isn’t exactly a page-turner, but Five finds herself going back to it more and more as the weeks and months drag on. The ink in the section on transgender identity is fading with how much she re-reads it by torchlight at night.

 

One day, when the children are outside running laps, Luther trips Five and she falls to the ground, scraping her knee up badly. Reginald excuses her, allowing her ten minutes for Grace to administer first aid before she’s expected back on the training field.

 

As she limps towards the house, she feels Vanya’s eyes on her back.

 

She reaches the living room and almost calls out for her mom before catching sight of her with a book in her hands. Five knows what book it is - the deep indigo cover and silver lettering is almost like a familiar friend these days. Hoping to evade notice, Five uses her powers to her advantage and jumps to a spot hidden by furniture, but with a clear view of her mother’s face.

 

Five winces when she sees how easily the book falls open to one specific page. It’s obvious that it’s been looked at countless times, read and re-read and re-read again, every detail gathered up and absorbed to the point she could probably recite it if asked.

 

She knows there’s no reason for the chapter to be so used, other than that she’s questioning if it applies to her. She’s terrified of how her mother will respond - if she’ll tell Reginald, or stop indulging the haircuts and clothes. She’s made the mistake of getting too comfortable with the new way of things, forgetting that change is not exactly something that The Umbrella Academy’s creator holds dear.

 

Five’s fears wash away when she sees the knowing smile across her mother’s face. Grace’s eyes trace the words with care, and Five can see the way she desires to learn, to understand the passage that so much summarises her child’s ongoing struggles. It’s clear that she knows that something more is going on than Five has expressed.

 

“Miss Emmeline.”

 

Five jumps at Pogo’s voice behind her. Grace falters too, calmly slamming the book and return it to its rightful place on the shelf.

 

“I surmise you’ve left your training for a reason?”   
“I came to find Mom. I hurt my knee.” She lifts her leg and points to the bloody graze as if to further prove her point. “Dad let me come inside for her to fix it up.”   
“I don’t see how she can fix it while you’re hiding behind an armchair. Chop chop, Miss Emmeline, and get yourself cleaned up. I expect Mr Hargreeves is wanting you back sharpish.”

 

Grace smiles softly and reaches out a hand to Five, guiding her towards the staircase. When they reach the bathroom, she gets to work on cleaning up her child’s knee. Five winces a little as the stinging anti-septic wipe makes contact. Without looking up, Grace makes conversation.

 

“Now, it’s a while since we’ve talked.”   
“Is it?” Five mumbles, averting her own gaze, though she still notices the slight smile that comes to her mom’s lips.

“I haven’t checked in on what you like. Is it Emmeline, or Number Five?”

“Number Five.” She says, voice quiet. Before Grace can respond, she pipes up louder. “Bt not around the others! Well, maybe Vanya. But I don’t want them to think anything strange is happening. So I guess it’s Emmeline.”   
“Is there something strange happening?” Grace looks up finally, making eye contact for the first time. Five feels her chest tighten infinitesimally.   
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”   
“That’s alright, Five,” Grace says, emphasising her name. “We can figure it out together. You have all the time in the world.”

 

-x-

 

For a few months now, Five has been using they/them pronouns to refer to themself. Only in their own head, but it still feels good. They brought it up to Grace once, while she was cooking dinner and they were helping to wash up the pots and pans as she went. She just smiled and said she was proud of them.

 

They’re eleven, and it feels good to just  _ be.  _ Now that they’ve lost the pressure of not knowing why  _ she  _ felt so wrong, they can focus on other things - their studies, their training, just being a kid. It has to be said, however, that being a kid tends to fall by the wayside, especially now their father is even more adamant than ever that it’s the Academy’s duty to save the world.

 

He orders Grace to fit the children for uniforms, as well as new coats and scarves. Five can hardly contain themself when she brings them their new jacket, and they see that the shoulders are squared and the hips untapered - it looks nothing like Allison’s, nor Vanya’s. It looks most of all like Ben’s. Designed for a boy, clearly, but not one as tall or broad as Luther and Diego. A small boy, still too small to be called ‘young man’, but a boy nonetheless.

 

-x-

 

The last nail is beaten into the coffin after the group’s first interview without their father, when they’re just shy of twelve.

 

The six of them are seated along two sofas, blinded by the studio lights and with an excessively smiley talk show host in between.

 

She runs through the spiel about how these kids are The Umbrella Academy, an ‘exciting new group of crime fighting tweens’. She lists off the boring (to Five, anyway) story of their adoption, powers, and subsequent superhero training. Five is disorientated, distracted, mostly fidgeting with their sleeve until they spot Reginald’s disapproving glare from the watching crowd. They sit up straighter, fix their jacket. After all, they have an image to uphold. It doesn’t stop their eyes from fading out, leaving their surroundings a blur. Luther’s ego gives them the chance to switch off completely, him talking for so long Five could very well have had a nap and it would make no difference. They don’t know what it is today, but they just can’t settle their brain. They’re desperately wishing to be anywhere but here (and in some respects, they are).

 

“And what’s your name?” The interviewer asks. Five snaps back to reality as her outrageously whitened smile stares them down like a shark. Five feels Klaus’ elbow in their ribs, sees Luther glaring  _ ‘just answer her!’  _ with his eyes.

“Uh — Five. My name’s Five.”

The interviewer laughs uncomfortably. “That’s an unusual name.” she says, and moves swiftly onto Ben.

 

For the rest of the interview, Five’s siblings are looking at them strangely, and it gets even worse on the ride home. Five is grateful for the  _ no talking in the car  _ rule, because the inevitable interrogation is not something they want their father bearing witness to.

 

When the group of them reach the house, Five moves as quickly as possible without being yelled at by their Dad, and shuffles into their bedroom before anyone can follow them. They lean back against the door, trying to settle their breathing. They can feel their heart beating out of their chest and their eyes burning.

 

There’s a soft knock on the door. Five knows it couldn’t be anyone but Vanya. Even so, they don’t answer.

 

“Five?” Her voice is small, gentle. She speaks to them the way she did the wounded kitten she once found on the Academy steps. Five feels weak, and the door stays shut. They hear her walk away after almost ten minutes of waiting. A weight is lifted from their chest, though the tension remains palpable.

 

They retreat to the bed and pull the covers up to their nose. They feel, once again, like they did when they were seven - like a small, scared child who can’t name their own emotions, let alone process them. They’re lost in a whirlwind of pronouns, labels, names, and stress. They’ve been so good at blotting it out until now, on national television, they’ve managed to accidentally admit to being nameless - which, to pretty much everyone whose fathers gave them names instead of numbers, is the same as having no identity.

 

They don’t get to worry for long before the door is slammed open. They recognise the heavy footsteps as Luther, even without looking up.

 

“What the hell was  _ that,  _ Emmeline? You made us look like freaks!”   
“Oh yes,” Five mumbles dryly, “It’s the numbers that make us freaky. Definitely not the superhuman abilities.”

 

They stiffen as Luther’s hand grips their shoulder. Even still, they don’t turn to look at him.

 

“We aren’t kids anymore, Emmeline. We have names.” When Five doesn’t respond, his grip tightens. “Next time something like this happens, you say your real name. We have a job to do, and we don't need your weird shit ruining that. Even Klaus wasn’t that weird, and he’s  _ Klaus. _ ”   
“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear!”

 

For once in their life, Five is grateful to Klaus for turning up unannounced. Luther’s tight hold on their shoulder is gone almost instantly. Five finally sits up, scrambling to the corner of their bed and pulling the duvet in even tighter. Luther just rolls his eyes and leaves the room, leaving only Five, Ben, and Klaus.

 

“So,  _ mi hermana,  _ what was all that about?” Klaus is fixing his hair in the mirror and must spot the way Five’s face twists. He swivels around, his skirt flaring out around him. “Or should I say  _ mon frère _ ? Darling sibling of mine?” He adds, putting on a comedic British accent reminiscent of their father.

 

Ben just glances between the two of them, saying nothing. Five can tell that he knows something. When Klaus keeps talking, Five shuts their eyes - they love their siblings, but today they’re just not in the mood. They want to be alone for a while.

 

“Y’know, nobody’s judging you for that interview.” Klaus murmurs, taking steps toward the bed cautiously, as if one wrong move would break his sibling. “Well, Luther may be, but he judges everyone, for everything. He judged me for being first down for breakfast yesterday.”   
“That  _ is _ because you were in the kitchen trying to find Dad’s whiskey.”   
“I’m trying to be inspirational, Benjamin.”   
“You’re doing a shitty job, FYI.” Five quips back.

“She speaks!”   
“ _ She  _ wants to be left alone.”   
  


Klaus pouts dramatically but doesn’t debate. He and Ben both offer supportive smiles as they leave, bumping into Vanya on the way.

 

“Van, I don’t want to -”

 

Vanya draws a finger across her lips, and mimes throwing away the key. Silently, she leaves a peanut butter & marshmallow sandwich by the bed. She opens her arms, still silent, and raises an eyebrow to request a hug. Five leans in and squeezes their sister, and she kisses them on the forehead.

 

“I’ll be here to talk when you’re ready.”

 

Diego pokes his head around the door and nods at Vanya - Five spots it, and can kind of tell he doesn’t want to push his luck. They can’t really complain.

 

“Let us know if you n-need a—nything. Love you.”

 

He’s gone again before anyone can draw attention to how gentle he’s being. He’s always been sweet, but he doesn’t like to acknowledge it - he considers it a detriment to his goal to overthrow Luther as leader of the team. If anything, Five thinks, it works in his favour.

 

When the last of their siblings leave, Five gets up and shoves the dresser in front of their door so people will stop bothering them.  They pull the duvet back up to their head and nap for a few hours, until an angered call of  _ ‘Number Five!”  _ draws them down to the dining table.

 

As always, the eight of them sit in silence. The sound of cutlery against plates is excruciating as they feel all eyes on them. The one time they look up, they catch Vanya's concerned smile. They bring themself to smile back. 

 

After half an hour, their father stands up from the table, excusing them. Before Five can escape, Allison takes hold of their wrist. 

 

“Family meeting, Emmeline. My room, ten minutes.”

Five catches Vanya’s wistful gaze. “Is Van invited?”

“Does she have to be?” Luther huffs.

“I’d like for her to be there, yeah. Especially given this meeting is  _ clearly  _ about me.”

“It’s not about —“ Luther starts to object, but Diego cuts him off.

“Yeah, it is. We gotta talk about what’s happening with you. We’ve all agreed.”

 

Klaus looks guilty across the room, and Ben mouths  _ ‘sorry’ _ , looking genuinely apologetic. Five just sighs and nods, following their sister to her room. 

 

“Let’s get this over with, I suppose.”

 

Allison’s room is by no means small, but with all seven of them within it, Five feels horribly claustrophobic. Near enough all of them seem to be on edge. Allison is on the knee of Luther, who is perched on her bed. Klaus sits cross-legged on the desk, eyes averted from the interrogation taking place before him. Ben is just below him on the swivel chair, seeming similarly disengaged, while Diego leans with his back against the door. Vanya’s hand slides it’s way into Five’s again, just as it always did when they were little. 

 

“So, Emmeline —“ Allison begins.

“Five.” Interjects Ben, much to the surprise of the others. “Her name’s Five unless she says it’s Emmeline.”

“Five, then.” Continues Luther, lips curling as if the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “What was that with the interview?”

“And the hair. And the shorts. You’ve been weird lately.”

“What’s weird about shorts, Ally?” Klaus cuts in. “Can girls not wear them?”

“They  _ can,  _ but —“

“And is me wearing a skirt weird?”

“Emmeline used to be normal, though!”

“Shut up, Luther.” Mutters Vanya quietly,

 

She doesn’t flinch, even as Luther squares up to her. Diego shoves him before a fight can break out. He gruffly reminds Luther that this isn’t meant to be a battle. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife, and Five is tempted to bear their soul just to break it. 

 

Instead, they stay mute. They take everything in. The sensation of their fringe tickling at their forehead, Vanya's hand on their knee. The sounds of their siblings' breath, while they themself hold theirs. The lights from passing cars dance up and down the walls and Five wonders when everything got so complex.

 

“It's nothing.” They mumble eventually. 

There's a sigh. “I heard a rumour-”

“Ally! You said we wouldn't!” Ben sounds mortified. 

Allison falters and starts again. “I heard a rumour that-”

“Allison!” There's uncharacteristic anger in Klaus’ tone. 

“ _ I heard a rumour that you told us how you really feel.” _

 

Five should hate this. They should feel appalled, betrayed, violated. But they don't. Rather, a weight lifts from their shoulders. With this added pressure from Allison, they can no longer hide behind the what ifs.

 

They've never really had a choice in any aspect of their life, and why should this be different?

 

“I feel like Five. I don't feel like Emmeline.”

“You don't have to do this.” Vanya whispers, but Five disagrees. Even without Allison's influence, this seems right. 

“I feel like I should be one of the brothers. And I feel like this has been how I feel for years.”

“Five-” Allison's voice cracks.

 

Her sister - no,  _ brother _ , brother feels right - carries on. 

 

“I feel like I've been taking all these tiny steps for so long thinking somebody else might make a decision for me about who I am, because -” Five stops to laugh bitterly. “Because I’m sure as hell lost. But I like being called Five, I’m  _ choosing  _ to be called Five. And… I’m not sure. I think I want you guys to call me he.”

 

He’s not sure what he expects to come from this revelation. What happens, though, is pretty much the last thing he would have predicted.

 

Vanya leans into his side and tenderly wraps an arm around his shoulder. Klaus and Ben then pile in, Klaus leaning up against Five’s back and Ben wrapped around his other arm. Diego falters by the door for just a second before crouching down and joining the hug. Allison joins a brief moment later, pulling Luther in with her. The seven of them remain like that for a while - it could be minutes, could be hours. The only thing Five is certain of is that he’s made the right choice.

 

He knows who he is.

 

-x-

 

Things are good. Simply, wonderfully, categorically  _ good. _

 

Five’s siblings have taken to his new identity with ease. They all have their own little ways of validating him, and he can’t thank them enough (though, for reputation’s sake, he is totally casual about the whole affair, never letting on how much their actions mean to him).

 

He’s been one of the boys for eight months now. It’s May, and summer is just starting. They go to the park on weekends, and Luther has taken to initiating team sports that the girls aren’t allowed to join in on. He always makes a point of choosing Five first.

 

Diego is more subtle, but even he can’t evade Five’s sharp eye. He can’t help but notice how his brother’s stutter seems to suddenly and inexplicably get worse whenever anyone misgenders Five in conversation, causing him to stumble emphatically over the word  _ he  _ for several seconds each time.

 

Allison and Klaus have seemingly banded together in their efforts to make Five feel comfortable within himself. Every few days Allison will discard an item of clothing, and donate it to Klaus’ gender-bending cause. As a result, Klaus will make room for it in his closet by giving Five another masculine garment, explaining it away by saying how “you’re closest to my size”. (That fact is undeniably, provably false, but who’s to complain?) Neither of them will admit to this being an identity-affirming scheme, but Five can’t find it in himself to call them out on it, for fear they’ll stop.

 

Seemingly unsatisfied allowing his brother to remain a number, Ben keeps offering name suggestions under the disguise of needing character names for his creative writing work. He’ll poke his head around the door at totally random moments and ask  _ “Do you like Frank? You know, as a name for a boy. Like for this boy I’m writing. For my story.” _ . 

 

Vanya doesn’t try to mask that her actions are all in pursuit of her brother’s happiness. She’ll make an explicit point of calling him boyish nicknames, and ask him to do stuff like open jars even though she’s perfectly capable alone. Every couple of days, she’ll ask him if he minds, but he just grins and reminds her again and again how much her support means.

 

He notices that even his father is adapting well to the change.

 

The cynic in Five tells him that Reginald is unshaken by his child’s seemingly sudden switch of gender due only to the fact he’s never seen any of his kids as people, but as ideas. It doesn’t matter who is a girl or a boy, so long as they’re practising their powers.

 

It’s comforting, however, to know that his lack of response isn't because he hasn’t noticed. Five had thought that might be it until today.

 

“Girls, go with your mother for your lessons. Boys, with me for training. The groups will switch in two hours.”

 

As Reginald herds the boys towards the stairwell and Grace guides Allison and Vanya by their shoulders down to their bedroom, Five stands frozen. He wants more than anything to just follow his brothers without a second thought, but the risk of his father disciplining him for insolence is almost as distressing as the idea of being lumped in with the girls.

 

“Is there a problem, Number Five?”   
Five stammers, and curses himself for it. “I’m not sure where you want me to go.”   
“Well, where do you think?”   
“I-” He must take too long to answer, because his father ends up deciding for him.

“I said boys with me. Come along, Number Five, and listen next time.”

 

-x-

 

He's frustrated now. He's been asking about time travel for over a year now, and every time his father responds that he wouldn't even begin to consider it until Five is at least a teenager. He's been thirteen for a week now and brought it up every day, but the answer is still a resounding no. 

 

It's dinnertime when he finally cracks. He slams a knife into the dining table and draws the attention of everyone in the room. He can see the anxiety in Vanya's eyes but ignores it.

 

“I have a question.”

 

His father makes a snide comment about silence at the dinner table, but Five doesn’t care to listen. He slams his plate away with a clatter, causing everyone to glance at him nervously.

 

“I  _ want  _ to time travel.”

_ “No.” _ _   
_ “But I’m  _ ready.  _ I’ve been practising my spatial jumps, just like you said.”

 

He jumps across the room, right into his father’s personal space. He’s trying to get a rise out of him, start a fight. His blood is boiling, and he feels a self-destructive rage burning up and out of his skin like fireworks. His mind is ablaze, and he’s just so sick of not being listened to or respected.

 

It’s the first time in years that he’s genuinely felt part of the family. Since coming out he’s felt the world around him slot into place - he lives, works, and trains with the boys, and when he progresses from one skill to the next it feels like everything is happening as it should have been from the start. And yet, he’s the only one of those of them with powers that Reginald doesn't push to do more and more all the time. He’s tired of being underestimated. If there’s one thing in this world that Five cannot stand, it’s being treated as if he can’t do just as much as - if not more than - his brothers.

 

His father is still wittering, banal excuses about the complexity and unknowns of time travel. All Five can hear in his drivel is  _ “I don’t trust you, I don’t believe in you, you’re not strong enough, smart enough, prepared enough.”  _ It feels like a challenge.

 

“Well, I don’t get it.”

“Hence the reason you’re not ready.”

 

Anger spikes in his chest. He should drop it, he knows he should. Vanya knows too, trying desperately to send warning beacons across the table with widened eyes and a subtle shake of her head. Callously, he ignores her.

 

“I’m not afraid.”   
“Fear is not the issue.” Reginald barks, still without the decency to even make eye contact with his son as he speaks. “The effects it may have on your body, even on your mind, are far too unpredictable.”

 

Five rolls his eyes, and his father finally takes the bait and slams his cutlery to the table.

 

“I forbid you to talk about this anymore.”

 

He takes back to eating, and Five clenches his fists. He doesn’t have the patience for his father’s ceaseless bullshit. He is old enough and smart enough to know what he can and can’t do, and as far as he can tell, time travel is firmly on the ‘can’ list.

 

He swivels on his heels and storms from the room. He hears his name being called after him, but pays it no mind. He’ll show them. He’ll show them what he can really do without all the redundant rules and restrictions that Reginald is set on enforcing upon him.

 

His heart beats out of his chest with the sweetness of rebellion.

 

He strides out the door and runs down the steps, mind on nothing but how good it’ll be to do this and rub it in his father’s smug little face.

 

He jumps, and the world around him is brighter. Colour lines the streets, and his blazer feels like overkill. He glances at all the ice cream carts and sunglasses around him and grins. It’s summer. He’s far from the dreary grey of the November afternoon he departed.

 

“Not ready my ass.” He smirks, a twinkle in his eye.

 

He jumps again.

 

Swirling snow, overcoats, and emptier streets. Winter. The conversation of that lunchtime must be at least a year past, and yet it’s been just minutes since his father told him that this possibility was out of reach. Five can’t wait to return home and point out all the ways in which this hasn’t ruined him - he flung himself blindly into the freezing depths of uncertainty and emerged even stronger than before, the exact opposite of Reginald’s ridiculous acorn metaphor. The idea of that conversation brings such a self-satisfactory glee, and yet Five’s urge to prove a point is still unsatiated.

 

One more jump, and then home. That’s the way to sell his argument - three jumps with no ill consequences? His father will have no choice than to let him try again. He picks up speed, clenches his fists and 一

 

And the world around him burns.

 

It’s a shock to the system, a punch in the throat. He’s on the same street he was before, and yet nothing remains. He sees what should be the bank, the solicitors’ office, the deli - but none of it is there. His universe has turned to rubble and ash, and it doesn’t take a genius to conclude that his home must have gone with it.

 

Even so, he turns and runs back the way he came, back towards the building that houses his belongings, his family, his  _ life. _

 

It’s gone too. The walls have fallen and the ruins are up in flames, but even that can’t stop his futile cries of his siblings’ names. This can’t be it. It can’t. The six of them are supposed to save the world, that’s what they’ve always been told. This must mean that they don’t. This means that, rather than growing old as heroes and eventually passing on after full lives, they must all go before their time. That’s the only explanation for landing in a post-apocalyptic wasteland in what can’t be the too distant future.

 

He drags himself through the wreckage, desperately searching for some sign that his assumption is wrong. His siblings must be alive. They  _ must  _ be. They would never die without him, they promised. All seven of them made a blood pact as children, when they were barely old enough to realise what that commitment meant. They would burn bright and long, and leave the world together in a blaze of glory once they’d all had a true chance to  _ live _ .

 

Their pact means nothing.

 

He knows that because of a chiselled jaw and cropped blond haircut that could only belong to Luther. The body peaks out from under collapsed cinderblocks, bloodied and beaten but not beyond recognition.

 

Five falls back a step or two in pure shock. Disoriented, he looks around in a near-daze and spots two more figures. He doesn't quite run, but rather fumbles at speed towards them. Allison’s curls and cheekbones are unmistakable, and Five is grateful that her eyes are shut - looking into them, the only thing that can’t have changed in the apparent years he’s been gone, would break him. Diego isn’t an easier sight. He’s older, broader, more scarred than Five knows him to be, but he’s unequivocally himself.

 

He doesn’t know why he takes his brother by the shoulders and shakes him. Consciously, he’s aware his efforts will be fruitless, but the voice in his head screams that this can’t be it. This can’t be all there is. If this is what the future holds, then why had he been so desperate to reach it?

 

He continues around the corner. Diego didn’t respond, obviously, and Five knew he had to pull himself away before he was dragged into the same dark nothing that his siblings must be inhabiting.

 

The final straw is Klaus.

 

He’s detached from the rest of the rest of them, far away but clearly a part of the same fight. He’s nothing like the Klaus Five knows. His eyes are sunken, seemingly lifeless even before the last breath left his body. He’s skinny, ragged, and in definite ill health. Five ponders the catalyst, but not for too long - it hurts too much to keep happening upon the possibility that this is all a direct result of his leaving.

 

On closer inspection, Klaus’ Academy tattoo is in full view. Five subconsciously touches his own. Beneath the distinctive umbrella lie two more tattoos - scratchy, likely hand-inked - reading  _ 00.05  _ and  _ 00.06.  _ He doesn’t dare think what that must mean for Ben, though he makes a mental note that that’s one less body to search for.

 

He can’t go back. He’s been trying, over and over for as long as he’s been in this hellscape. He clenches his fists until his nails cut crescents in his palms, and urges his powers to act up until he gives himself a headache. 

 

He’s alone now.

 

Painfully, horribly, irrevocably alone.

 

-x-

 

The one and only upside to his bitter isolation is that nobody is around to watch him develop into a young woman.

 

There had always been an unspoken agreement in the household that their father would pay for anything that would resolve any causes of undue stress or distraction to the children. Knowing how Diego’s stutter bothered him, Reginald forked out for speech therapy three times a week, on the condition he made up training time before breakfast was called. Ben’s anxiety was medicated away as soon as it made him afraid to partake in missions. Klaus was allocated an occupational therapist that trained him to work around his ADHD (with such efficacy that she was no longer needed by the time he turned 11). Five had assumed, with no backlash from Pogo or his mother, that he’d be given hormone blockers and testosterone as soon as the time came.

 

Unfortunately, the time has come too late.

 

The first time he notices how curved his body has become, his heart sinks. He catches sight of his reflection in the cracked glass of what was once the library entrance and sees a teenage girl staring back. It’s enough to ruin his day, which he thought should be impossible given his god-awful circumstances.

 

If that weren’t enough, worse things come in the following months.

 

He never names it - never has a need to. He’s realised, bitterly, over the year or so that he’s been here, that names are something utterly meaningless in a world where there’s nobody to hear them. He could refer to it as whatever he liked, but in his own head, there was no point. He knows exactly what he’s thinking of, euphemisms or not.

 

Though some areas of the city were thoroughly decimated in the apocalypse, others were lucky enough to get away just badly scorched. It was of only some consolation that the high street was one of those to survive.

 

He’s been taking advantage of the grocery store for the entirety of his time in this desolate timeline. For the first month or so he was able to take advantage of the perishable items, but had to fall back on the tinned goods before long. Today, however, he skips straight past the food. His gaze settles on the healthcare section and, gut twisting with anxiety, picks up a pack of sanitary pads.

 

His face flushes red as he changes into it. He knows it’s perfectly natural, and that nobody's watching. That doesn’t change how mortifying this entire affair is. He’d thought he would never have to go through this,  _ especially  _ not in the grimy aisles of an abandoned supermarket. This doesn’t even make him feel less manly - it makes him feel less  _ human _ . The thought of this being a regular occurrence for as long as he survives is enough to knock him sick.

 

-x-

 

His only real form of entertainment is Vanya’s book.

 

Well - entertainment is a strong word. It’s not fun to read, not by a long shot, but it gives him something to cling to. He finds comfort in her words, the stories of his family that go on for long after his departure.

 

It hurts to read about the loss of Ben. There’s no real detail, but the knowledge that Five is the only one of them who never said goodbye hurts. Regardless, it’s nice to reminisce. The book is primarily stories of their childhood, things Five has already lived through, but he holds them in his heart with more passion than anything else in the world.

 

What’s most harrowing are the tales of life after his disappearance. Though he can’t exactly  _ blame  _ the family for carrying on without him, that doesn’t make it any easier to know that they did. It’s of little comfort to read how it affected Vanya, but it is at least comforting. Chapter Five is titled  _ ‘The First to Go’ _ , and it’s all about him, and their relationship. The whole thing gets to him, but what tears his heart out of his chest time and time again is the last paragraph.

 

_ “My brother was the only one of my siblings who didn’t change as we grew up. No matter how much my father isolated me, or what missions the others went on, Five didn’t treat me any differently than he had when we were toddlers too young to know what was different about us. Throughout everything, Five was himself. He was the same sensitive, charming, protective boy he had always been. All I can hope now is that no matter where he ended up, he is even more himself than ever before.” _

 

Five comes back to that page a lot.

 

-x-

 

As his second year living out his miserable life as the only human left on earth draws to a close, Five finally outgrows the Academy uniform he’s been wearing for so long. He’s been too tall for months, but now the shorts dig into his hips and the shirt buttons won’t do up around his ever-expanding chest.

 

Much as he hated his upbringing, the uniform isn’t something he can bear to say goodbye to. It’s his last reminder of who he once was, and of who he lost. In the absence of blood relations, these stifling uniforms are what bound his family together.

 

It’s with a heavy heart that he drags his feet to the department store.

 

He’s been in there a few times before, but it’s not a staple of his routine. He mostly only goes in to grab a new pair of shoes when the debris wears down the soles of his previous pair, or to replace his underwear when his monthly nightmare catches him off guard.

 

The aisles are eerily clean. Most places in the collapsed city house bodies (though Five had respectfully disposed of those in places he visits often) but the apocalypse happened on a Sunday, and the department store hadn’t been open to welcome customers in the hours of their demise. The space is dark, its backup generator long since burnt out, and the clothes rails are lit only by the sinister blueish glow of the night sky.

 

The fashion is strange to Five. For obvious reasons, he was never exactly style-conscious back in his time, but he was at least somewhat aware of what people wore on TV and in the news. Things are totally different here - this building acts as a microcosm of 2019 (the year of the apocalypse, and a year that he’d never quite thought as far as until he was in it), and it couldn’t be more different than the 2003 that he left behind.

 

He doesn’t know how he ends up in the women’s section. Maybe its some primal urge to torture himself, to keep opening the wound that his body acts as.  _ Boys’ clothes won’t fit,  _ his brain tells him,  _ you’re a woman now _ . He kind of wishes it were possible to physically punch your own subconscious.

 

_ “Men’s section’s over that way.” _

 

The sound throws him off guard and he spins on his heel, brandishing a coathanger as if it could be an effective weapon. He knows he’s the last alive - if he weren’t, his fellow survivor would’ve presented themself some time over the last 24 months of despairing searching.

 

_ “Calm down, sweetie. I’m a just manifestation of your crippling loneliness.”  _ The voice seems to be coming from a mannequin of a torso in a polka dot blouse.  _ “Though I think I’d also make an excellent conscience.” _ _   
_ Five shakes his head and sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’m losing my mind.”   
__ “Well, of course. Who wouldn’t? Loneliness is a real pill. I should know, all these bitches with legs think excluding me is super fun. It’s like I’m the only mannequin in this store that knows how to hold a conversation.”

 

Five finds himself laughing breathily. If this is the beginning of his descent into madness, he’s glad the madness has a sense of humour.

 

_ “As I said, men’s section is by that door.” _

 

Five glances up, as if the mannequin had actually pointed him in a direction. He catches sight of where she  _ (God, she. He really is crazy.)  _ means, though, and walks to it. The display is made up mostly of plaid, cotton, and bootcut jeans.

 

_ “I’d say go for whatever seems most practical, and durable. Though if you’re a fashion guy, I’m a big fan of sequins.” _

 

What he picks up is pretty boring. Dark grey jeans, a black shirt, red plaid overshirt and a black hoodie. He hides behind a rail to change as if he’s actually being watched by the plastic woman. When he emerges he makes a beeline for the mirror. The outfit itself isn’t bad, but Five can’t stand how he looks in it. His hair is too long and his body too feminine. He can’t stand it.

 

_ “Psst.”  _ He looks up with a start - he’d almost forgotten about the companion he’d created.  _ “There’ll be scissors in the homeware section. It’s downstairs, I think.” _

“Thanks.” He mumbles, internally cursing himself for actually responding.

 

He returns to the mirror two or three minutes later, scissors in hand. They’re clunky kitchen scissors, but they’ll get the job done - it’s not like there’s anyone around to witness a botched haircut.

 

_ “What am I, an inanimate object?”  _ There’s a beat of silence before her voice continues  _ “Tread carefully, Number Five.” _

 

He takes a chunk of his fringe in his right hand and makes a choppy cut with the scissors. It’s not neat by any stretch of the imagination, but with his bangs back above his eyes, he feels more like himself than he has since the start of this wretched apocalypse. He keeps cutting with reckless abandon until his hair looks like a stragglier version of how Grace used to style it.

 

Now all that’s left to fuel his dysphoria is his chest.

 

_ “Could I make a suggestion?” _ _   
_ “I imagine you will regardless of my answer.”   
_ “Don’t blame me, you’re responsible for my personality.” _ _   
_ “I don’t feel responsible.”   
__ “You also don’t feel like a 31-year-old man, which you should by this point in your biological timeline.”

“You make a valid point.” He laughs. “Alright, your suggestion?”

_ “Swimwear is upstairs. A tight swimsuit might work to compress your chest a little.” _

 

The idea is actually pretty smart. He knows, realistically, that it’s his own, but he thanks the mannequin anyway as he dashes toward the stairs. When he returns, there are two swimming costumes slung over his shoulder. The first is bright pink with cartoon stars across it, while the second is deep blue with an understated seashell print. They’re obviously both from the children’s section, but it doesn’t really matter to Five since it’ll be living under his shirt anyhow.

 

He picks the scissors up again and nervously hacks away at the swimsuits, just below where they’d touch his ribcage. He holds each one to his torso to assess the length, and deems them acceptable. He falters.

 

_ “You can change in here. I won’t look.” _

 

He removes his shirt awkwardly, back turned to the mannequin despite her distinct lack of eyes. He puts both of the form-fitting lycra crop-tops, one on top of the other, and wriggles around until they feel comfortable.

 

When he turns back around to the mirror, he’s pleasantly surprised. He still doesn’t look how he wishes, nor how he feels he looks when there’s no visual to prove him wrong, but he looks closer than he did before. His chest is mostly flat, and he decides he’d rather look like a 12-year-old boy than a 15-year-old girl.

 

He throws the scissors into a discarded plastic bag, along with some spare t-shirts and an extra pair of jeans. He contemplates picking up more swimsuits before he leaves, but figures these two will do for now.

 

_ For now _ . Like he won’t be in this apocalypse much longer. Like he has a choice.

 

As he goes towards the exit, he stops for a moment. He turns back to the mannequin, who hasn’t moved. He knows, if he applies even one iota of rational thought, that the mannequin isn’t really conscious. She’s a projection of his warped and lonesome psyche, a character devised from his intrinsic desire for companionship.

 

Even so, he bundles her under his arm and carries her out of the store.

 

-x-

 

They’ve been living together three months when Five finally decides to initiate this conversation.

 

“Do you have a name?”  
 _“Not unless you’ve given me one.”_ _  
_“Would you like one?”   
__“Are names important? To you, I mean.”

 

Five ponders, humming absentmindedly. He’s thought of it a few times over the years. Recently, he’s been leaning towards thinking they don't matter. But since he’d made a friend for the end of the world, he was starting to think that, in some cases, names might be a pretty nice thing.

 

“Maybe. I might like if you had one, anyway.”   
_ “So give me one.” _ _   
_ He chuckles. “I’m called Five. I really don’t think names are my strong point.”   
_ “Just go ahead. Name me. I trust you.” _ __   
“You seem like a Delores.”

 

The sun is setting, and this feels almost romantic in a twisted kind of way. There’s a silence between them, though not an uncomfortable one.

 

_ “I was wrong to trust you. Names really aren’t your strong suit.” _

 

He smiles. Call him crazy, but he thinks Delores does too.

 

-x-

 

The Handler’s offer is appealing in more ways than one.

 

While ‘assassin’ had never been high on his list of career aspirations, he was smart enough to know what the Commission’s health benefits meant. In fact, that was the first incentive she gave when trying to recruit him.

 

Though he doesn’t believe that gender is at all physical and that it shouldn’t have to be categorised by medical intervention, that doesn’t alter how much he  _ wants  _ it. He wants the hormones and the flat chest and the facial hair of any other 50-year-old man. He wants to be looked at and seen as who he knows himself to be. He wanted it even when he thought he was the last human being on the planet, and even more so now he knows about the Commission and its workers.

 

The time between his first testosterone shot and the day his doctor clears him for active duty following his surgeries seems to pass in a blur. The Handler makes sure of it. 

 

While becoming a killer seems to strip him of his identity, taking steps to make his outside match the in indisputably helps make him feel like he’s staying at least somewhat true to himself. At least, that’s what he tells himself every time his conscience rears its ugly head. He’s no longer the same person that used to fight crime in a leather jumpsuit and domino mask - but then again, he never wanted to be.

 

-x-

 

Physical transition isn’t a cure-all for his dysphoria, nor for the mental health problems that come with it.

 

Most days, he is able to ignore the toll that his body takes on him - he takes pride in his scars, physical and emotional. He allows himself to pretend that the testosterone coursing through him isn’t synthetic. Others, unfortunately, he just can’t.

 

Generally, these moments of unease come at night. He is made once more to live as he did so many years ago - a scared little girl in a bed much too big with thoughts much too loud. It doesn't matter how his beard scratches at his neck, nor the way he lies on his front without his chest getting in the way. He still can't help but feel such utter disconnect from his own self that it seems impossible to do anything but cry.

 

-x-

 

He makes a mental note to tell Delores she was right. His calculations  _ were  _ off.

 

_ “Does anyone else see little Number Five, or is that just me?”  _ is the last thing Five expects to hear when he crashes through the portal he’s  _ finally  _ managed to form. Glancing down at himself and seeing how loosely his clothes fit on his newly shrunken frame, all he can say is  _ ‘shit’. _

 

Returning to this iteration of himself would be laughable if it weren’t so frustrating. He thinks back to all the years he spent outgrowing this body, not to mention fixing it. He went under the knife and sold his soul for what? To return to his family as a prepubescent girl?

 

The only positive aspect he can see about this whole debacle is that he isn’t unused to the sensation of being in the wrong body.

 

To most, crash landing into the physique of someone both twice and half the age of your same-aged siblings would be an unthinkable horror. To Five, it’s just an extension of his own normality. He’s never been the same as any of these people, and now would be a ridiculous time to start.

 

-x-

 

Vanya's apartment is very much an extension of herself. It's small, homely, and reeks of coffee and fabric softener. He feels safe here. 

 

He hasn't questioned why she already had supplies on hand to deal with the deep cut in his right arm. He finds it easiest to pretend it's a coincidence, knowing he'd only blame himself if he got the answer he's expecting.

 

He tells her everything about the apocalypse. What he found when he landed, how he survived. There's a deep sorrow in her gaze, one that's saddening in how familiar it looks. 

 

He sees how she hesitates before asking her next question. 

 

“How did-” she pauses, contemplating. “What happened to you? The trans stuff, I mean.”

“I developed. Adapted, kind of. It wasn't ideal but I did what I could to cope. I sort of had to put it on the backburner. Survival was a little more important than comfort.”

 

She reaches a hand out to his knee. The touch is comforting in its familiarity. 

 

“Is it strange? Being 13 again?”

“A little. After a while, I found the means to transition. So for ten years or so I was physically pretty content. It's a little odd going back to before puberty, male or female. It's going to be hard starting round three.”

“Wait, but how-”

“It's not something I like to go into. To put it simply, it turned out I wasn't alone in the end.”

 

She doesn't press for more, and it reminds him why she was always his favourite. 

 

“We should sleep. I don't have a bed spare, but I'll take the couch.”

“It's alright, I can sleep here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He says, throwing out his signature smile. She returns it, if a little weakly.

 

She settles him in with a blanket and some cushions. There's a mug of coffee beside him which, though decaf, is pretty comforting.

 

He considers sneaking out in the night. He’s too antsy to remain in one place for too long - he has a world to save, a Delores to find, a one-eyed man to identify. And yet every time he goes to creep from the couch to the door, he remembers the passage in Vanya's book about how she used to wait for him.

 

He pictures a young Vanya tiptoeing downstairs in the night, flicking all the light switches and using a half jar of peanut butter in the hopes it might entice him home. Even worse, he pictures her face upon waking to find it hadn't worked. 

 

He can't do it to her, and so he stays the night. He curls into the blanket that's so soft it feels like even nightmares can't reach him and sleeps through till daylight. 

 

He wakes up in the morning to a new mug of coffee and a smile on his sister's face, and knows he made the right decision.

 

-x-

 

The next eight days fly by, what with everything they’re doing to save the world.

 

Preventing the apocalypse isn’t as satisfying as Five had hoped or expected it would be. It just ends up leaving another void in his life.

 

Klaus takes him on somewhat of an uncomfortable ride when he points out how the end of the world had become an addiction of Five’s own. He’d never thought of it as such, but the more he thinks on it the more he knows his brother is right. The way he’s been so dependent on it for so long that he no longer knows what to do without the threat of its inevitability coursing through his veins is… worrisome, to say the least. It’s surreal to sit at the breakfast table without having to hurry everyone along for fear of wasting time before the impending armageddon, or to sleep at night knowing for absolute certain he’ll wake the next morning.

 

“You wanna get sober together?”   
“Huh?”

 

He hadn’t been prepared for Klaus to lean in close to his ear. He’s been sitting in the same spot for hours without any interruption from his siblings, rolling the now-irrelevant eyeball between his thumb and forefinger. It’s been in his pocket for so long that he’s not sure he’s capable of letting it go.

 

“Sobriety!” Klaus sing-songs, pirouetting around to crouch in front of Five’s chair. “It’s an  _ adventure _ , I’ll tell you that. Easiest not to do it alone, y’know?”   
“I’m not sure this is quite the same as you and your pills, Klaus.”   
“Sure it is! You gotta rid yourself of the toxins, get yourself through the emotional withdrawal, replace your vice - it’s the same.”   
“It’s  _ not  _ the s-”   
“That’s what an addict says, bud.”

 

Five isn’t sure he has the energy to fight back. He may look thirteen but he’s so,  _ so  _ old. He’s tired. He really doesn’t care to make a war of this.

 

“Whatever. Sure. What do we do first?”   
“I usually flush my pills. I’m not sure the plumbing will thank you for dropping in that eye, though, so we should figure something else out.”

“And after that?”   
“Stay away from it. Don’t give yourself the opportunity to fall back on it. Distract yourself.” 

 

He’s hesitant, to say the least. The glass eye in his hand has been around so long he counts its weight as part of him. To physically drop it will be difficult, and to drop its emotional baggage? Borderline impossible.

 

He thinks of everything he has in the here and now. He thinks of the family he’s lost and then found again, of the chance he has to press pause on this oh-so-hated body. He thinks of Delores, and of how he can make a real life for the two of them here. He thinks of his safety, of his siblings, of his fresh start. Of the world he’s saved, and of everything he can make of it. 

 

He hands the eye over to Klaus.

 

“Sure, whatever. Let’s do this.”

 

-x-

 

Six months back in the real world feels like anywhere between two minutes and ten years. He hadn't expected everything to slot back into place - how could it, with their father and Ben dead, the siblings thirty, and Five back looking thirteen?

 

Even so, life moves on pretty easily. Luther moves out of the family home ( _ “It's just something I have to do.”)  _ while Allison, Klaus, and Five return. Vanya and Diego may only be a few streets away, but they too spend so much time at their house that they may as well stop paying rent on their apartments.

 

It’s almost a joke how much they play up to making up for the childhoods they never had.

 

Though real life often gets in the way, each of them likes to make time to be with their family, and do everything that they didn’t as kids. There’s some stuff that just isn’t accessible when you’re so heavily monitored and restricted, like late night snacks and pyjama days and blanket forts. It’s therapeutic, in a way, for the five of them (six, if you include Ben, though only Klaus can see him most of the time) to experience it now, despite their age. 

 

It's during one of their movie nights that Grace pulls Five aside and into his father's office. 

 

“Everything okay, Mom?”

She smiles. “I've been thinking. You've been back over half a year now, and it's seeming unlikely you'll be able to return to your adult body.”

“Oh.” Five stiffens. 

“Therefore, there seems no point allowing you to develop as a thirteen-year-old. Physically, the chances are that you'll experience puberty based on your biology, which would be unnecessarily taxing on you, emotionally.”

“Physically too.” He laughs bitterly. “It wasn't exactly fun the first time. Where's this going?”

“Before your initial disappearance, your father was preparing for that inevitability. All the paperwork for you to transition medically is completed and in his filing system. Theoretically, we could start you on hormone blockers this week. Would that be something you'd like?”   
“I- W- Shit. Sh-shit, yeah. Please.”

Grace smiles. “Well, we’d better get that sorted then.”

 

-x-

 

He gets his first blockers shot on his 30th birthday (or his 14th, or 59th, depending how you choose to define his age).

 

It's not an unfamiliar feeling, exactly, but there is something very new and surreal about knowing that this time around hormone replacement therapy is entirely preventative and not there to fix mistakes made by his first round of puberty. The thought he'll never have to go through  _ becoming a woman  _ again makes him feel like finally,  _ finally,  _ he's on the right track. 

 

His siblings cheer for him and he blushes. It's not like this is the important step - testosterone will come later, and it'll be a long time before he gets his beard back. Even so, their support is overwhelming. Last time he transitioned was an entirely clinical affair, there for the convenience of the Commission more so than his own state of mind. 

 

He almost cries, except that he doesn't do that. Vanya does, and Klaus, and apparently Ben, but Five remains stoical. 

 

Inside, however, he's sobbing.

 

Because this is it - the transition he deserves, the one he's been waiting so long for. 

 

His journey starts with his family around him, the way it should always have been. 


End file.
